Psychopomp

- I -

“Brothers, let there be no peers to our fury and fervor. Let there be no conflict in our character nor impediment to our duty. Morrius watches ever o’er us. Be now Worthy: resolute in life, resonant in death.”

Helias Payens

25BE-35AE

Founder of the Order Psychopompos

As recorded by the scribe Nerva Faust

“Who are you?”

No matter how many times the young man is asked this question, it unsettled him in some way. It carried an immense weight and demanded the same of its answer.

Who are you….

Most think they know, he recalls his mentor’s words, though most often their answer is of who they wish to be. A future self possibly damned to imagination, never to be married with the self of the present. Psychopomps must never be this. A Psychopomp divorced is doomed to dishonor and death.

His work, his very survival in the days to come very well hinge on this answer. In the sight of the Order’s patron god, Morrius, in the sanctum of this consecrated, subterranean temple, no man dares deceit. Not before the mighty, unforgiving God of Death. Even shadows cannot hide from the master of the dark, the priests often remind them.

And that’s what unnerved him: judging the truth, waiting to see how long it aligns with what he believes. The first dawn of every active rotation summons forth the duty to rise with the sun, enter this holy temple, and answer the question before all else.

Amidst the dancing dimness of the emerald flames in the Sancta Morrium, amidst the hypnotic chants of the twelve priests at the front of the cave, restraint upon the mind eases. An involuntary release where the underlying depths of their minds are exhumed and given to the whims of the currents.

He sits upon his knees alongside dozens of his brothers, all dressed in simple white gowns with the Order’s sigil, a human skull wrapped by a serpent, embroidered across the torso in red.

Patient, elongated hums of a gargantuan organ reverberate from the acoustic altar. Its radiant, gilded pipes contrast so sharply against the dark, damp cavern walls. A towering ivory statue of Morrius looks over them all. His gold-inlaid eyes, gleaming with the limelight of the candles in the priests’ clutches, scrutinize the Mass, judging their piety, their virtue, their strength. Upon his shoulder sits a bird clad darker than shadow, with eyes sharp and profound as icicles, looking where master cannot. Ever vigilant, the Raven’s eye.

For him, for all his brothers kneeling now before this choir of flesh, stone, and steel, their minds are arrested by its ancient words whose every syllable coats one another in a bewitching lyrical spell. No coherent thoughts form, dispersed as easily as dust to air; what remains are only kernels of deep feelings he would give anything to both embrace and banish.

Yet the chants are more than melodic sounds, but experiences felt in lyrical sonar. The wonders, the pains, struggles, and triumphs of a thousand years delivered in every pulse. The hymns resound in their bones, in their bosoms to remind them a primordial truth they all know and are obliged to never forget:

All die

Every birth is a condemnation to an end

This life is but a manuscript of their deeds and sins

Once the minds of the Psychopomps are entirely empty, the nucleus of any thought banished with each breath in their ushering chants, the chaplains enter.

Along the sides of the shadowy cavern, following the current of water that flows around the perimeter, walk men wealthy with age and service to the Order. Like their kneeling brethren, white mantles with the sigil adorn their bodies, yet across their seams are golden threads. Anchored amongst the churning ring of water are stone wardens, the eight sons of Morrius encased in polished armor of bone and skull-casted helms who stand dutiful watch over the supplicants of their mighty father. The hands of each son clutch the hilt of their long sword, the broad blades embedded beneath the water, and in the pommel is a candle whose wax is said to never melt.

Each chaplain approaches a statue in quiet step and in the effortless unison of decades of daily repetition, ignite the pommels.

Every kindled wick preaches evermore the eminence of this chamber, yielding forth a gangrenous bullion glow that reveals more and more of the statues and engravings carved into the walls many centuries ago.

The immortalization of past champions, proud and bittersweet.

Battles and cases passed down from generation to generation.

Impish statues and figures hide in corners and shadows. Creatures that incite death, beings that covet life plot against each other, seek prey and predator. With the dancing green embers, their shadows seem to dart, sway, and whisper names. Some brothers swear they truly do.

And most magnanimously, at Morrius’ side, are his three daughters of unrivaled beauty and grace, wrapped in silk robes even the wealthiest cannot acquire: Robes of the Ichorians. One, fierce and cold in her posture with a gilded crown of hair, stands foremost with a burning golden torch in her hand.

The chaplains turn inward to the kneeling men. Coming before each man, who opens his eyes upon the gentle touch of the chaplain’s hand upon their shoulder, they kneel and gaze solemnly into their eyes.

The chants muffle to white noise, the periphery of his sight blurs, casting consciousness into the unending blackness of the old man’s pupils.

“Who are you?” Cool and colorless the tone.

The young man’s starry blue eyes belie the Charybdian vortex of elemental feelings that stir in him, and like the chaplain, he waits to hear the truth that will emerge.

“Ewain Gregor.”

“Who is Ewain Gregor?”

“Psychopomp.”

“Charlatan?” The chaplain asks, a hooked edge in his voice.

“Oath-bound.”

“Deceiver?” Sharper this question cuts.

“Warrior.”

“Murderer?” Their gaze remains locked, inflicting a paralysis upon the young man.

Any movement, the slightest micro-reaction to a single word lashed against Ewain, the chaplain would notice. Conspicuous as cracks on a glass lake.

“Is death the end?”

“No, Pater,” Ewain’s chest tightens, ribs crunching toward his heart.

“Is this all that we are?”

“No, Pater.” Tighter and tighter.

“What awaits us?”

“Absolution.” Ewain replies stoically.

“And what do you seek?”

“Worthiness. Favor of the Gods.”

“You have a wish of the Ichorians?” Faint curiosity breaks the chaplain’s cold tone.

“Yes, Pater.”

The chaplain nods, “May the Gods deem you Worthy of it. The Raven’s eye watches you.” With his heavy hand still upon the young Psychopomp’s shoulder, he finally severs their eye contact with the closing of his eyes. He speaks softly in ancient words familiar to Ewain in sound, yet unknown to him in meaning.

Once the last word leaves the chaplain’s lips, he rises and moves to the Psychopomp next to Ewain.

Suddenly the chants reemerge, and his peripherals regain their clarity. Ewain remains knelt a moment longer, staring at Morrius, his daughter Vela that bears the golden torch. He takes one last deep, peaceful breath. Every new active rotation started the same way, in this cavern. Three years of repetition made it mechanical now, but as soon as it ended, he had to take deliberate control. It always starts with a deep breath, manual instead of automatic.

Rising to his feet, Ewain files out with the others through the back archway into the Antemora, a long, gradually inclining tunnel. Torches with spectral fire are mounted upon the sides, above channels of water that flow down to the sanctum behind. In number beyond counting, preserved and erected suits of various armors line the walls with tunnels that divert off in unending detours just to properly abide the sheer volume.

Skulls nestle atop each. Their eyeless sockets pierce daggers into those that walk by. Those suits nearest the Sancta Morrium bear steel plates and chainmail laden with fractures and dents centuries old, their luster now permitted to gracefully decline. Nearer the top, wool vests and surcoats of leather and metal plates dominate. Beaten gun belts weigh heavy around the waists, their gems and engravings winking with the fire light.

Daylight greets them when they emerge from the cave entrance carved into the side of this cliff face. Babbles of a flowing river muse from just ahead. Countless pristine white wooden boxes with halos of light float on their way to the Ethereal Eye. The final departures from life to death.

Numerous young boys, their heads shaved clean, await them in quiet discipline with wooden cards the size of fingernails delicately in their clutches.

One boy, half of Ewain’s twenty-five years, approaches him as soon as he clears the antechamber entrance. Fading patches of purple and blue complexion lie upon the boy’s face, yet he shows no emotion. With both hands, the boy extends the five pure white wooden cards and bows his head, “Psychopompos,” he utters reverently.

Ewain takes them with two hands and bows, “To Morr.” To Death.

From each beats a faint rhythm, a couple steady, a couple frantic. Echoes caught in a torturous loop.